his sacred savage hunger
harries her terrified soul
torn and tormented by years
of most callous abuse
she clawing clings to the
shell of her tormented self
selling another patch of flesh
just to appease his need
but it is never enough, no!
her fear sloughs aside another day
another year, desperate to hear
a voice of tender tones
longing to feel the touch
of one who might caress
her heart with gentlest hope
and sing her blissful need
yet in the darkest moments
drowning in deathly solitude
she believes she has no choice
but to kiss the demon lips
of despair
[Thank you, Allison, for finding just the right words.]
George Ellington 
I hesitate to ask what this was inspired by, George.
-David
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Oh, it was nothing personal, my dear friend. Or at least nothing I experienced myself, although I have known enough people who have shared their experiences with me. I was reading a poem from Allison, and in it were those words “sacred savage hunger,” and somehow that morphed in my thoughts into a truly hideous sense of pain and abuse at the hands of one who assumes his cause to always be just, sacred even.
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Please may I thank you in return, George. I just find it so brave of you as a writer and a person to dare inhabit inside of your mind an underworld of sorts, from both perspectives, or as it may be, from many perspectives, brought together into one intimate poem. Pain is prismatic, isn’t it… it is hard to collect and sharp to hold, it bends and shifts and distorts. I am so grateful to you.
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Beautifully said, Allison. I hadn’t thought of it that way, but yes, pain is prismatic–sharp and delineating and inhabiting such a variety of experiences–the mortal and the maligning as well as the pleasing. It slices and swiftly severs. And yet can hold one intent and wondering. And sometimes too fearful to even move.
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Yes, George. Yes, exactly. Christ you can say a thing so it stares right back at you.
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